Teal has pulled down the periscope, handling it gingerly. Not time enough to warm. Maybe it has its own magnification, but I doubt she’s seeing all that I’m seeing. There’s a phalanx of vehicles out there, deep in the dust cloud. The angel analyzes the most likely threat first, a large concentration of Antag vehicles. As well, aerostats are advancing slowly behind the dust, about fifty klicks from the Drifter: big suspended balloons, the smallest at least a hundred meters in diameter. But then the angel points up another, much smaller line of vehicles, moving at speed in front of the main mass, just before the leading edge of the dust. These outlines are more familiar, possibly not a threat—
The angel flashes purple, still collating—then chirps. Here’s some good news. The advancing Antag front is driving a line of human transports. Not many, no more than twenty or thirty, but they’re clipping along at a fair pace and will likely reach the arc that includes our position before the Antags.
“Not’ing but dust,” Teal says, pushing back the scope. “What do you see?”
I’ve been quiet, except for clucking my tongue and tapping my gloved fingers, a habit when I see shit coming down. “Ants chasing rabbits,” I say. “Cavalry, maybe.” I don’t say aloud, but not enough, and followed right on their heels by a whole lot of Indians. The biggest Antag push I’ve ever witnessed.
I try to raise Gamecock, but as before, RF is blocked by the density of metal and rock. I remember DJ is outside the southern gate trying to pick up a sat signal. He’s on the wrong side of the Drifter and won’t see what we see.
“Far Ot’ers? Do t’ey know we’or here?” Teal asks.
“No idea,” I say, and lean in close to the plex, hoping my laser will carry that far. I murmur a message to the angel and it shoots a beam through the port, varying frequency to find a sweet spot. Not much chance it will get through, it tells me. Plex too thick. Too much dust between us and the advancing vehicles.
“No good?” Teal asks.
“Depends,” I say. “We got to go. Shut the port. Don’t want heat giving us away.”
Teal closes the louvers. We descend and run back to the southern garage.
Gamecock and de Groot have agreed to a loose armistice, against the wishes of Captain Coyle, who does not enjoy being outranked. Gamecock has somehow convinced de Groot and the Voors to help us begin defensive prep. All the twisty-ties have been cut and discarded. Makes me nervous, but what the hell—it’s our only option.
“I shot a helm burst east,” I say.
“Might not have been a good idea, bringing them here,” Coyle says.
“We need help,” Gamecock says, frowning at her in puzzlement.
“Maybe.” Coyle isn’t happy about any of it. Again, her reaction seems wonky.
Kazak and Tak, with the help of Rafe and Andres, have sketched a crude map in the green dust of the key tunnels and external points of access, and when I pass along what I’ve seen, the Skyrines go into overdrive. Coyle orders three of her team lower into the Drifter to check out the supply situation, and asks Teal if she could act as a guide. Teal, with a glance at me, and to my nod, agrees. She trusts me. But fuck if I know what’s going on.
They head out.
Rafe conferences with the Voors while de Groot talks over final things with Gamecock and Tak. If our forces received my burst and are speeding to join us, we’ll open the northern gate and let them in—all the troops and as many of their vehicles and weapons as the garage can hold. Then we’ll hunker down, hope the Antags pass us by—
But they won’t. We sense that. They’ve laid down a heavy hand, they mean to stay, and that will take all the resources they can grab.
They still have eyes in the sky.
And they know we’re here.
SHIT ALSO FLOATS, SOMETIMES
Before I exit, Teal returns with our three sisters. Her glum look leaves me with a strong impression that she suspects something is wrong, something that she does not feel at liberty to divulge. Does it involve our collaborating, even under necessity, with the Voors?
I wish I knew more about their history from an unprejudiced source, but on the other hand, Green Camp has been closer to the problem than anyone on Earth, and the tall dust widow is a serious, sober sort; she’s suffered through her own kind of shit, her own kind of betrayal. Green Camp effectively forced her out on the Red. Then they alerted the Voors she was heading their way, all just to preserve a share of the Drifter, de Groot’s pipe.
And now, she sees we’re cozying up with her enemies.
Blows huge, all of it.
The generators are doing well, Coyle’s team reports, and Teal agrees. Gamecock instructs Tak and me to post ourselves outside the northern gate, hiding behind the rock ridge, peeking over the top. We’ll have a direct view of the approaching dust.
I check out the vehicle lock. It will only take three Skells or two Tonkas at a time, end to end. We won’t be able to get all the vehicles inside, even those that will fit, before the Antags are upon us.
We pass through the personnel lock, which is big enough for maybe ten. Outside, it’s coming up on mid-afternoon and very cold, but we aren’t quite freezing; shivering knocks my teeth together, but that’s okay, that’s what we’re used to. We can only hope the Antags and their sats don’t spot our slim IR signatures and take potshots.
The wall of dust doesn’t look any closer, but it does look higher. We can make out a few vehicles on the leading front with our naked eyes. Then the dust closes in. They must be fleeing in thick haze, and surely they know what’s behind them. Makes me shiver.
Tak and I tap helms and talk to pass the time.
“How many days between space frames?” Tak asks. We both know the answer, but I say it anyway,
“Forty-three on average, depending on the season.”
“How much equipment on the average sled?”
“Six hundred tons.”
“How much of that is weaponry, how much transport and tents?”
We’re not worried about fountains for the moment, because it’s obvious we’ve found the mother lode of water and other resources.
“Forty percent transports, twenty weaponry,” I say, rattling off the stats we’re used to dealing with. Each delivery and drop can vary widely, and we won’t know until we’re updated; all this talk is snotsuck. But we’re hoping our cavalry is traveling with platforms that can carry big hurt. Tons and tons of it, and lots of spent matter to mow down Antags.
“I could go for a steak,” Tak says.
“Cue sad harmonica,” I say, but grimace at the thought of sizzling meat.
“Play ‘Danny Girl,’” he says. “The captain is hot.”
“Captain Coyle is not hot. She’s total big sister.”
“Big Mama, you mean.” Tak has dignitas, but he’s no less male for all that. Irritating a watch partner is a true art form. Too little, and we might relax, become inattentive; too much, and we lose focus on the Red and start paying more attention to the argument.
“Guy can violate protocol on the Red anytime he wants,” Tak says. “In his head.”
“Hope angel doesn’t note it.”
“Duly observed. Angel, absolve me.” Tak looks aside. “I heard Coyle went special ops.”
“Something like that,” I say. “And nothing about her after Hawthorne.”
We think this over. Separate goals, separate orders. Special ops is like a hidden reef. Could protect, could sink.
Our angels are quiet. We never know what they record. So far, no Skyrine has ever had his loose talk or death video splattered over media; maybe we’re too trusting. Or maybe we’re too damned select and valuable to be messed with. Or—maybe we just can’t afford to pay for the right video feed.